On they floundered despite their exhaustion; on along the subaqueous ridge, which at every step appeared to sink deeper into the water—as if the nearer to the land the peninsula became all the more depressed. This, however, was but a fancy. They had already passed the neck of the sand-spit where it was lowest. It was not that, but the fast flowing tide that was deepening the water around them.
Deeper and deeper—deeper and deeper, till the salt sea clasped them around the armpits, and the tidal waves began to break over their heads!
There seemed but one way open to their salvation—but one course by which they could escape from the engulfment that threatened. This was to forego any further attempt at wading, to fling themselves boldly upon the waves, and swim ashore!
Now that they were submerged to their necks, you may wonder at their not at once adopting this plan. It is true they were ignorant of the distance they would have to swim before reaching the shore. Still they knew it could not be more than a couple of miles; for they had already traversed quite that distance on the diagonal spit. But two miles need scarce have made them despair, with both wind and tide in their favor.
Why, then, did they hesitate to trust themselves to the quick, bold stroke of the swimmer, instead of the slow, timid, tortoise-like tread of the wader?
There are two answers to this question; for there were two reasons for them not having recourse to the former alternative. The first was selfish; or rather, should we call it self-preservative. There was a doubt in the minds of all, as to their ability to reach the shore by swimming. It was a broad bay that had been seen before sundown; and once launched upon its bosom, it was a question whether any of them would have strength to cross it. Once launched upon its bosom, there would be no getting back to the shoal water through which they were wading; the tidal current would prevent return.
This consideration was backed by another—a lingering belief or hope that the tide might already have reached its highest, and would soon be on the "turn." This hope, though faint, exerted an influence on the waders—as yet sufficient to restrain them from becoming swimmers. But even after this could no longer have prevailed—even when the waves began to surge over, threatening at each fresh "sea" to scatter the shivering castaways and swallow them one by one—there was another thought that kept them together.
It was a thought neither of self nor self-preservation; but a generous instinct, that even in that perilous crisis was stirring within their hearts.
Instinct! No. It was a thought—an impulse if you will; but something higher than an instinct.
Shall I declare it? Undoubtedly, I shall. Noble emotions should not be concealed; and the one which at that moment throbbed within the bosoms of the castaways, was truly noble.
There were but three of them who felt it. The fourth could not: he could not swim!
Surely the reader needs no further explanation?
CHAPTER VII.
A COMPULSORY PARTING.
One of the four castaways could not swim. Which one? You will expect to hear that it was one of the three midshipmen; and will be conjecturing whether it was Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, or Colin Macpherson.
My English boy-readers would scarce believe me, were I to say that it was Harry who was wanting in this useful accomplishment. Equally incredulous would be my Irish and Scotch constituency, were I to deny the possession of it to the representatives of their respective countries—Terence and Colin.
Far be it from me to offend the natural amour propre of my young readers; and in the present case I have no fact to record that would imply any national superiority or disadvantage. The castaway who could not swim was that peculiar hybrid, or tribrid, already described; who, for any characteristic he carried about him, might have been born either upon the banks of the Clyde, the Thames, or the Shannon!
It was "Old Bill" who was deficient in natatory prowess: Old Bill the sailor.
It may be wondered that one who has spent nearly the whole of his life on the sea should be wanting in an accomplishment, apparently and really, so essential to such a calling. Cases of the kind, however, are by no means uncommon; and in a ship's crew there will often be found a large number of men—sometimes the very best sailors—who cannot swim a stroke.
Those who have neglected to cultivate this useful art, when boys, rarely acquire it after they grow up to be men; or, if they do, it is only in an indifferent manner. On the sea, though it may appear a paradox, there are far fewer opportunities for practising the art of swimming than upon its shores. Aboard a ship, on her course, the chances of "bathing" are but few and far between; and, while in port, the sailor has usually something else to do than spend his idle hours in disporting himself upon the waves. The sailor, when ashore, seeks for some sport more attractive.
As Old Bill had been at sea ever since he was able to stand upon the deck of a ship, he had neglected this useful art; and though in every other respect an accomplished sailor—rated A.B., No. 1—he could not swim six lengths of his own body.
It was a noble instinct which prompted his three youthful companions to remain by him in that critical moment, when, by flinging themselves upon the waves, they might have gained the shore without difficulty.
Although the bay might be nearly two miles in width there could not be more than half that distance beyond their depth—judging by the shoal appearance which the coast had exhibited as they were approaching it before sundown.
All three felt certain of being able to save themselves; but what would become of their companion, the sailor?
"We cannot leave you, Bill!" cried Harry: "we will not!"
"No, that we can't: we won't!" said Terence.
"We can't, and won't," asseverated Colin, with like emphasis.
These generous declarations were in answer to an equally generous proposal: in which the sailor had urged them to make for the shore, and leave him to his fate.
"Ye must, my lads!" he cried out, repeating his proposition. "Don't mind about me; look to yersels! Och! shure I'm only a weather-washed, worn-out old salt, 'ardly worth savin'. Go now—off wi' ye at onest! The water'll be over ye, if ye stand 'eer tin minutes longer."
The three youths scrutinized each other's faces, as far as the darkness would allow them. Each tried to read in the countenances of the other two some sign that might determine him. The water was already washing around their shoulders; it was with difficulty they could keep their feet.
"Let loose, lads!" cried Old Bill; "let loose, I say! and swim richt for the shore. Don't think o' me; it bean't certain I shan't weather it yet. I'm the whole av my head taller than the tallest av ye. The tide mayn't full any higher; an' if it don't I'll get safe out after all. Let loose, lads—let loose I tell ye!"
This command of the old sailor for his young comrades to forsake him was backed by a far more irresistible influence—one against which even their noble instincts could no longer contend.
At that moment, a wave, of greater elevation than any that had preceded it, came rolling along; and the three midshipmen, lifted upon its swell, were borne nearly half a cable's length from the spot where they had been standing.
In vain did they endeavor to recover their feet. They had been carried into deep water, where the tallest of them could not touch bottom.
For some seconds they struggled on the top of the swell,